


killed by a sexy car, more on page 9

by ThymeAtlas



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: (as in: he cuts you up but you make it weird), Dubious Consent, Gore, Other, Vivisection, gender neutral reader, just kinda gross in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9644930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThymeAtlas/pseuds/ThymeAtlas
Summary: Knock Out cuts you open ;)





	

**Author's Note:**

> wrote most of this last summer when i was Working Through some stuff, finished it up now bc i'm no longer self conscious enough to keep myself from posting it
> 
> anyway, @ all u depressed trans kids w fucked up kinks: i got u

You feel rubber beneath you before you open your eyes, and realize you’re completely naked. Your wrists and ankles are restrained and your head feels fuzzy. You can’t remember anything after the crash, can’t remember the crash even, just a red sports car coming towards you, a little too close and then you blacked out. There’s something moving wherever you are, it sounds big and metal, like some large machine at a factory or (you desperately hope) something at a hospital. Unable to cover yourself, you shake a little in the cold. You open one eye cautiously and it’s way too bright; there’s at least one light focused on you and it’s hard to make out what’s hovering above it.

“Ah,” says a deep voice from above you. “You’re awake. Humans are just so fragile, I didn’t know how long it would take you.”

You squint past the lights and are able to make out giant head, shoulders, wheels. _It’s a car,_ you think wildly, _it’s a fucking car,_ and then you’re screaming.

“Shh,” the voice says, “shh… I’ll have to gag you if you continue to make noise.”

You stop, mainly because you’ve run out of breath, and pant a bit.

“What are you?” you say. “What do you _want_?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” it asks. A huge hand comes out of nowhere and you flinch but it just gestures to something to your left. You turn your head and see a table set with scalpels, tweezers, saws, but much too big. Some of the blades are the size of your face and you start to scream again but this time the hand does touch you. The fingers are giant and metal and pointy but it’s just the fingertip that touches your mouth, gentler than you thought possible. “I’m a doctor, and you organics are just so fascinating.”

It leans towards you, face nearing the light now, and you can see the smooth white of its face and the red rings in its eyes. The palm of its hand rests on your stomach, pressing you slightly against the rubber you’re lying on. It’s warm, and you can feel each ridge in the metal against your bare skin. “My name’s Knock Out,” he says. “And who might you be?”

“Fuck you,” you say and strain against his hand, because none of this feels real and you always wanted to be more defiant.

“Cute,” he says, but he takes the hand away. “Keep behaving like that and I won’t use anesthetic.” He smirks as your eyes widen, but you stop struggling. He presses something to your neck, definitely not a syringe, but the numbness starts spreading through you almost immediately. You didn’t realize you were aching until the feeling is gone. It’s not putting you to sleep.

“I want you to be awake for this,” Knock Out says. “Not for any reason, I just want to see your reactions. I’ve only just arrived here and humans are so fun to watch. I can’t get enough of you!”

You’re able to turn your head enough to see him take the smallest of the scalpels from the table. It’s still way bigger than anything that should be used on a human. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find anything smaller,” he says, and presses the tip of the blade to your chest. You can’t feel anything, but you can see the blood well up around the metal. “No, wait,” he says, making an incision over your stomach and past your belly button. You do feel that, not in full, but like dragging a fingernail down your abdomen, like a bruise being pressed in a straight line. “I’m not sorry at all.” You gasp a little, not out of pain but at the shock of seeing your own blood in a red line down your chest.

“I agree that my work is breathtaking,” he says, “but you should wait until it really gets good.” He makes two more quick cuts, forming a Y shape on your body. You can still barely feel the scalpel, but you can smell the blood now. You can year your heartbeat. For some reason you don’t feel scared, just filled with adrenaline and shaking, though the restraints keep you from moving too much. Knock Out carefully wipes off the scalpel and puts it back on the table. He picks up forceps, and you breathe in sharply through your teeth as he peels the skin back. The sound alone would normally be enough to make you gag, but you feel so out of it that you can’t perceive any of this as real. You think momentarily that the crash might have given you a concussion or something worse, but you forget about it as soon as the smell of blood becomes stronger and you can hear your booming heartbeat over the sound of your ragged breaths and the gentle hum of what must be Knock Out’s motor.

You don’t realize you’ve been leaning forward as far as the restraints allow until Knock Out’s hand shifts suddenly into a saw, bigger than your face, and your head snaps back, hitting the thin layer of rubber below you hard enough to feel the metal underneath; you see white for a second. Your hearing returns in time to hear Knock Out saying “—can’t have that,” and he restrains your neck with the same cool leather that surrounds your ankles and wrists. It’s not tight enough to hinder your breathing, but it is bothersome and the pressure hurts whenever you swallow.

He considers the saw. “On second thought,” he says, eyeing it in a way that makes it look like the most exciting thing in the world, “Maybe I should save this for later.” His hand switches back, and one of his long, pointed fingers reaches down to your abdomen, _into_ your abdomen. You instinctively tense your muscles, squeeze your legs together to the knees, but you still feel it when he delicately slips his digit under a loop of intestine and pulls it free. The pain isn’t sharp. It’s more of a dull kneading. Your intestine is light pink and shiny with blood; it slips over his finger and he catches it with another, staring as it unfurls from your body.

You feel almost like you might vomit, but you’re also detached from your body, your head spins as he strokes along the intestine. His sharp fingers never puncture it, and suddenly his eyes flick to yours and he smirks. Blood pools out of the hole in your torso and trickles down your sides. Inexplicably, you feel a sharp spike of arousal, and you keep your legs clenched together, embarrassed and scared that he might notice, even though no physical change has occurred.

“Like a hand?” he asks, raising a delicate eyebrow, and for a second you think you’re caught but he gestures to your own right wrist.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and the restraint slides away. Immediately you bring your hand to your mouth, biting on your fingers hard enough to leave marks, trying to assure yourself that you’re still real, trying to find something you can hold onto. Your tongue is warm and wet against your knuckle and your canine digs into the bone. When the heat of his gaze turns back to your exposed organs you relax a bit, loosening your jaw and letting your finger slip from your mouth. Instead, your hand hovers expectantly at the edge of the fissure, the heat of your body warming it as the smell of blood hits the back of your throat.

Your eyes can’t leave his shiny, pointed finger, still hooked under that piece of intestine, so you sense beforehand when he’s about to straighten the hand, let the organ drop. You want to close your eyes but you can’t make yourself look away as the intestine falls in a sloppy spiral, and you tense as if expecting something with more finality than the dull slap against your thighs and hips when it finally completes its arc. Hot blood drips between your legs and it’s almost torturous against your sensitive skin. While the anesthetic has dulled pain, it seems to have enhanced other feelings; you can acutely feel every move he makes inside your body. If anything, the pleasure is amplified.

You make no sound but a sharp exhale that he doesn’t seem to notice as blood splatters your hand. The red dots burn against your cold skin. Bored with the intestines, Knock Out is outfitting his hand with a saw smaller than the one before but still too big, and you stare transfixed at the slide of metal on metal. You snap out of it when the saw starts though, flinching away from the whirring blade coming down like a storm over your ribcage, slamming your hand back against the rubber. When the loud crack of bone rings through the room you’re tasting salt, and you realize you’re chewing on your knuckle again, your own blood spreading through your mouth.

You grit your teeth against the rumbling spreading through your entire body, squeeze your legs together and feel the blood pressed sticky between them. When he raises the saw out of your torso you almost long for it, but that still doesn’t prepare you for when it returns on the other side of your sternum. By now you’re biting down on your finger hard enough that you fear it might break so you remove it from your mouth, clenching your fist by your cheek, teeth marks clearly visible on your skin. The buzzing that travels through your bones and out your skin is almost unbearable.

He breaks through your ribs and this time when he removes the saw he also turns it off, the loud whirring finally leaving the room. In the relative silence, your breaths are deafening. A sharp finger worms its way under bone and you feel the slide of it against your stomach and liver. You clench your fists and raise your shoulders as high as they’ll go, trying to get away from this invasion, but you still force your legs together and minutely raise your hips, blood pooling both in and on your groin.

He breaks the suction between blood and bone as he rips the ribs from your body. Before you lift your chin to avoid being hit you see blood dripping down pillars of stark white and back into your chest, a hint of something underneath, a sliver, but it’s blocked from view by the cage he’s holding delicately between finger and thumb.

“Very nice,” he said, leaning down, giant red eyes examining your ribs. A hot drop of blood falls on your cheek and you take a sharp breath. At first you don’t think he notices, his eyes still scanning the bone, but then he brings his hand almost softly to your cheek. You think he might wipe away the dot but he just holds his finger there, the cold metal burning almost more than the blood does. Your eyes are wide; you don’t dare move. His eyes meet yours for half a second before sweeping down below your exposed insides. By now you know you can’t hide your arousal any longer and you don’t even try, instead focusing on not twitching, not blushing.

He smirks, wipes the blood from your cheek and brings his left hand to your thigh in one swift motion, gently setting down the rib cage with the right. The sharp points of his fingers poke your soft skin but he doesn’t move any higher, offers no relief. His other hand reaches back into you, delicate fingers wrapping around something and pulling. You feel how the tips of fingers dig into the organ, the suction formed by blood as it’s pulled away, watch mesmerized as it drips down his wrist. You realize you don’t even know what he just took out of you, don’t know the names of all of the parts of yourself, that you really should have retained more knowledge from bio class, and the thought is so ridiculous compared to the rest of this situation that you can’t even think for a second, just watch with a detached fascination as he brings the hand to his mouth and licks up his wrist like this is nothing more than a particular juicy peach. His eyes again meet yours and you almost involuntarily try to buck your hips upward but his left hand stops you, pinpricks of pain where his fingers dig into your flesh.

This time he laughs outright and you gape at him; he takes the opportunity of distraction to reach once more into you and pluck something else from your insides. The organs he holds in his open palm look small, but compared to him everything looks small. You try to run through possible things: kidneys, pancreas, is the gall bladder something humans have? Not knowing what they are does nothing to stop feeling every brush against you from the inside, every time a sharp finger scrapes something by accident. Whenever you chance to look down you only see a sea of blood, shiny islands of what are left of your organs breaching the liquid, red spilling over your sides and pooling on the table beneath you.

He doesn’t remove his hand from your inner thigh the entire time, clenching down tighter on it even as you push your hips upward. Every time you arch your back the restraint around your neck almost chokes you. At some point you remember that your right hand isn’t bound, reach desperately downwards to touch yourself, but he slaps your hand away, actually glares.

“Don’t make a mess of my work,” he says, so you resort to sticking your fingers in your mouth, reaching backwards, trying to replicate the feeling of what he’s doing to your torso.

You know when he removes your liver; it’s large and triangular, a deep red, dripping with blood. You find yourself salivating as it sits in his hand, tiny, toy-sized, the overly bright lights overhead shining off it. Somehow you think that something big is going to happen, like he’ll bite into it, blood squirting out of it and staining his chin (it’s too small, or he’s just too big, fucking massive), and you feel like an idiot when he just puts it clinically down next to the others in perfect formation. Your intestines are still spilling out of your midsection, decorating your hips with their bright loops, but he has been putting the others down in the same placement they were in your body, a copy of you laid out like a diagram.

You’re completely light headed and having trouble breathing, you can still hear your heart beating, smell the blood that splatters your surroundings, and the rubber is warm under your shoulders, your back, a little slick with either sweat or blood although you're still cold.

Your lungs are still there; you can feel them expanding, you’d be dead if they weren’t, unless you’re dead already. Your heart is still there. You don’t think anything else is. You’re strangely hollow, you could collapse in on yourself at any moment, you can’t really see anything but the gaping emptiness of your torso, the indication of something no longer there. It’s not like you’re paying attention to that anyway, you’re painfully close to climax, one hand in your mouth and the other clenched at your side, the pressure at your throat, your toes curled, the phantom sensation of your stomach muscles tensing even though those muscles have been torn through: you’re not going to last very long, in either sense of the phrase. The tips of his fingers are still on your thigh, their sharp ends almost boring into the soft flesh. Blood runs between your legs.

The heart is the last thing he takes, plucks it out of your chest between two dainty claws. It barely gives any resistance to his strong hands, lifted from your body like picking a flower. It flutters wildly, pumping a spurt of blood over your body. The splash is so shocking hot wet you can barely stand it, your entire body tenses.

He laughs. “Looks like I’ve stolen your heart,” he says, and then he _licks_ it. It’s tiny, really, a pill on his tongue, but when he swallows it and grins at you…

When you come you see stars. Your mind goes blank.

“Get someone in here to clean this up,” you hear faintly.

You die.


End file.
